For the Love of an Angel
by Vinyllia
Summary: WARNING: SPOILERS FOR THE REICHENBACH FALL -   John struggles to cope after the loss of his dearest friend. A sudden return affects the lives of those involved in a way that none of them could have ever expected.
1. Chapter 1

"How are you feeling today?"

There was a silence as a pair of tired, bloodshot eyes stared into space. Lines drew out from them, the man's face saggy and expressionless.

"John, it's been three months. You need to regain some sense of normality." The woman paused, moving to try and gain eye contact with John. "I know it's hard, but you have to try."

John blinked, squinting for a moment then turning towards the therapist. "Normality?" he snapped "He was–" He swallowed, trying hard to resist the tears that he could feel prickling in his eyes. "Being around him was my life. That was normality for me. There is nothing else." His voice wavered, the last word going up slightly in pitch. He put a hand to his face, massaging his temples. He took slow deep breaths, a few of them shaking as a tear dropped from his lashes. He wiped it away, standing up. "I can't." Another tear dropped and ran down the side of his nose. "It's too soon."

John turned and walked stiffly out the room. The therapist sighed, writing up her notes as the door closed.

The next morning was gloomy. Clouds filled the sky, threatening to start raining any minute.

Mrs Hudson knocked lightly on the door. "John? I've made you a cup of tea." There was no reply.

John sat on the edge of his bed, his hands by his sides, his fingers limply tapping the covers. Waves of goose bumps rippled through his body. He'd had another dream, only this one was different. He'd seen him again, but not how he usually saw him. He was not on the pavement; he was not covered in blood or limp. He was alive. His face was so vivid and bright. He smiled at John, opening his mouth as if he was about to speak.

Then John had woken up.  
>All morning he'd been thinking about what he saw. It had been so long since he'd seen Sherlock like this. He kept closing his eyes to try and make him come back, but every time he almost saw him he was gone again.<br>His eyes were closed when Mrs Hudson entered the room. She placed the tea by his bedside and sat down on the bed beside him. She placed her hand on his shoulder. This startled John. He shouted angrily, "God-dammit Mrs Hudson!"

She stood up, "Well there's no need to be like that!" she cried, hurriedly leaving the room.

John looked up towards the window. It had started raining. He stood up and wandered towards the window to gaze out of it. Across the street he made out a dark figure standing in an alleyway. It shuffled, looking left and right. Another figure moved towards the first and began shoving them. The first fought back and seemed to succeed. John's heart skipped a beat and he wondered for a moment if it was him. He watched the action unfold further. The first man stepped out towards the street. John moved closer towards the window squinting to make out a face. His hopes dropped when he finally made out a face. Not the face he was looking for. The man walked down the street and turned the corner out of sight.

John sunk back towards his bed and rested his head on the pillow. It was cold and harsh against his soft tear-stained skin. As he closed his eyes he drifted away into a dream state.

John found himself in a musty old pub. He did not immediately recognise it, but yet it felt familiar somehow. He scanned the room for that one face he was looking for. The back of a curly haired head caught his eye. He held his breath calling out his name. The man turned. It was him. He seemed somewhat distraught to see John as stood up and walked towards him. John's heart beat faster, his palms sweating and his breaths deep. He gazed into the eyes of the man facing him. The man's frown left his face and he smiled for a while. His lips parted and he spoke just one word; believe.

John woke up abruptly, sweat dripping from his temples. There was a loud noise of banging coming from downstairs. John heard the front door open and slam. Then Mrs. Hudson screamed. John dashed down stairs, almost slipping on the way. Then he stopped dead in his tracks. His mouth dropped open as he stared aghast for a moment. He managed to utter a single word. It felt sharp as it left his lips, what with his brain still trying to process what he saw before him.  
>"Sherlock?"<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock stood in the hallway of 221B panting heavily. He'd evidently been running, but his face however was as white as a ghost. This was due to him being covered from head to toe in chalk and dust.

John and Mrs Hudson gaped at him, longing for and explanation.

Sherlock however, simply brushed himself off and stepped past John. He started up the stairs, calling down, "Tea would be lovely Mrs Hudson."

John and Mrs Hudson both followed him with their gaze as he hopped up the steps. Sherlock reached the top and turned out of sight. John put a shaking hand to his forehead, drawing it down to his mouth where it met the other. He stood, leant against the wall with his hands cupped over his mouth. Mrs Hudson looked back towards the place where Sherlock had just stood. There was a small circle of dust on the carpet. She turned away, "I knew he'd come back." She spoke shakily and shuffled quietly away to the kitchen.

John frowned at the top step where Sherlock had been. His body was frozen and he struggled to make his legs start up the stairs. They felt heavier with each step, his breaths deepened and his head throbbed. With a sweaty hand he reached out and pushed open the door. Sherlock was searching the room, most likely for his cigarettes but stopped and looked up at John as he entered. There was an awkward silence. Sherlock could see John was waiting for an explanation, but ignored it, "I need you to send a text. These exact words; Tell Mr Lyle that the-"

John abruptly cut Sherlock off, "Shut up!" He shuffled forwards, impatient, pointing a finger at Sherlock. "You were dead! We buried you! And you just waltz in!" John paused, struggling to resist the very strong urge to punch Sherlock in the face. "How the hell can you be here?"

Sherlock turned away, an awful heavy guilty brewing in the pit of his stomach.

John shifted uncomfortably, his hands hanging limply by his sides. His voice cracked, "Just tell me the truth."

Sherlock approached John. " You have to understand I did it all for you."

John grew impatient, "Did what?" he frowned at Sherlock, his fists slowly clenching as he waited for an answer.

His voice was deep, his face grimacing, "Moriarty may have killed himself, but that was nowhere near the end of it. He'd set up plans that would take place on the event of his death. I had to jump to save you all."

John cut in, "But three months, Sherlock? You could've come back."

"I had to make sure every thing had been taken care of. Moriarty doesn't do straight forward."  
>John's voice increased in volume. "But you let me believe for three months that you were dead? I've been mourning you and having weekly bereavement counselling." His temper rose, "You didn't think once in three months that you could perhaps drop me a text to say, 'oh hey, I'm not actually dead'? I bet that never even crossed your mind!"<p>

"John, it wasn't that simple."  
>Sherlock was interrupted by a punch to the face. He staggered sideways holding his jaw, exclaiming at the pain. John held his fist, panting.<p>

Sherlock pulled himself upright, wiping a drop of blood from his lip. "Did that help?"

John breathed heavily, taking a deep breath to calm down. "Yes."

There was a pause, the two men stood facing each other, catching their breaths. Sherlock spoke, looking John in the eyes, "I'm sorry."

Sherlock could see John shivering from the rush of emotions he'd just felt all at once in the past few minutes. "You alright?"

John took another deep breath then let it out slowly, "Yep, yeah." His voice shook.

He paused, breathing for a moment.

John lurched forwards and grabbed Sherlock into a hug. Sherlock froze for a moment unsure how to respond, but then reciprocated, placing his arms around John's waist. John closed his eyes, a tear falling onto Sherlock's shoulder. He sniffed. Sherlock realised John was crying and gently stroked his friend's back, embracing him a bit tighter.

John drew out of the hug and moved his hands up the Sherlock's face. He held them there for a moment gazing into Sherlock's deep blue eyes. He took in every feature of the face he knew so well, processing the fact that Sherlock was actually standing in front of him again after all this time of lost hope.

John's lips lightly touched Sherlock's. His eyes closed, Sherlock's warm breath on his face. There was a split second where Sherlock was confused, but he quickly settled into the kiss. He reciprocated. It felt natural and he shocked himself to find that he was enjoying it. As John's lips lightly nipped at his he felt an overwhelming sense of absolute happiness, and he remembered why he came back.

He needed John. He could've just jumped and commit suicide for real. He was willing sacrifice everything for the people he loved who were in danger. He didn't have to ask for Molly's help. He didn't have to land in a lorry full of bags instead of the pavement. He didn't have to perform a body swap. It could have been him on the pavement rather than the look-a-like he'd arranged to have take his place. Except it couldn't have been. He needed to be with John. He couldn't just leave him. He cared too much for him. The reason that John was his only friend was because he'd never felt anything like this towards anyone else before. It wasn't just a friendship, it was much deeper than that, and what made it so significant was that John felt exactly the same way.


End file.
